chest.
‘Hey, it’ll be all right,’ he murmured, but she wasn’t so sure. It was less than two days, and he’d already broken the rules by stealing her phone and trying to find his. Goodness knows what else he’d do while her back was turned. He was up half the night—could he be using her phone?
Did she care? So long as he was there in the day and trying, did it matter if he cheated?
Yes!
Or—no, not really, so long as he learned the work-life balance lesson?
‘Come on, let’s go and get a coffee. There’s a little café I noticed near the car. I’ve brought drinks for the girls, and maybe they can warm up their jars.’
‘Gloop?’ he said, looking wary, and she thought of his new jumper and smiled.
‘It’s OK, I’ll feed them, if you like,’ she promised. ‘I’ll just let you pay.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ he said with a sigh of relief, and, going back to the other side of the buggy, he towed it the rest of the way to the car without a murmur.
The babies were ready for bed early that night.
‘It must be the sea air,’ Jules said as she heated their supper—pots of home-made food this time, he noticed, and wondered if it was better for them.
‘Does that have all the right nutrients in it?’ he asked, and she stared at him as if he was mad.
‘It’s food—not a chemical formula. Roast chicken, broccoli, carrots, roast potatoes, gravy made with stock—of course it’s got all the right nutrients.’
‘And you cooked it?’
‘Well, of course I cooked it!’ she said with an exasperated sigh. ‘Who else?’
He shrugged. ‘Sorry. It’s just—I hardly ever saw you cook, and I don’t think you ever did a roast.’
‘No, of course not. We never had that long to do something so unimportant—’
‘Jules, stop it! I was just—’
‘What? Criticising the way I’m looking after my children?’
‘They’re my children, too!’
‘So learn how to cook for them,’ she said crossly, and threw a cookery book at him. ‘Here you go. There’s chicken breast, mince, salmon steaks, prawns and pork chops in the freezer. Take your pick. You can do supper for us while I get the girls in bed.’
And, stalking off with one of them in each arm, she left him sitting there staring blankly at the book.
Jeez. He could make coffee and toast and scrambled eggs, at a push. And he could unwrap stuff and shove it in the microwave, or pick up the phone and order.
But—cook? Real ingredients? Hell’s teeth, he hadn’t done that for years. Fifteen years? Not since…
He opened the book and flicked through the pages. What was it they’d had in the pub? Chicken breast stuffed with brie and wrapped in bacon, or something like that. She’d given him cheese last night—not brie, but cheddar. Would that do? Maybe. And how about bacon?
He stepped over the dog and investigated the fridge.
No bacon. No brie, either, come to that, and very little cheddar.
But there was pesto, and he thought he’d seen some pasta in the store cupboard in the kitchen when she’d been rummaging for biscuits.
So—pasta with chicken and pesto? A few toasted pine-nuts and a bag of salad…
No salad. Probably no pine nuts.
Peppers?
He hauled out a few things he’d seen served with similar dishes, set them all on the kitchen table and settled down with them to try and find a recipe that tied at least some of them in. Then, having found one, he had to work out how to use the microwave and, worse, how to use the Aga. Or even find the tools to reach that point.
Starting with a sharp knife, and a chopping board, and a deep, heavy pan. That was what the instructions said.
He found them, thawed and sliced the chicken, fried it in the pan with olive oil, onion and peppers, opened the pesto—and discovered mould.
Damn!
But there was rice, too, and prawns, so—how about paella? How the hell did you make paella?
He turned back to the book, wondering how long, exactly, Jules could remove herself from the kitchen. Long enough for him to ruin every single ingredient!
Simple. He’d order something in. Even she couldn’t object to him doing that on the house phone.
Except he was supposed to be doing this himself, and rising to a challenge wasn’t something that normally held him back. So—paella. How hard could it be?
‘Oh! Risotto?’ she said hesitantly, poking it and sniffing.
‘Paella,’ he corrected. ‘The pesto was off.’
‘Oh, it would be. There’s a new one in the cupboard.’
He rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Right. Well, I was adaptable,’ he said, sounding pleased with himself, and she sniffed again.
‘How much garlic did you use?’
‘I don’t know. It said two cloves. It seemed a lot, so I only used one.’
‘Clove, or bulb?’
He frowned in confusion. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘Um—the bulb is the whole thing, a silvery-white papery thing with bumps and a stalk in the middle. A clove is one of the little bits inside.’
He scowled and turned away. ‘Well, you should have been here if you’re going to complain.’
‘Hey, I haven’t complained.’
‘You haven’t tasted it yet.’
‘Well, so it might be a bit garlicky. So what? I’m not going to kiss anyone, am I?’ she said, and then wished furiously that she could repossess her words, because he turned slowly and studied her.
‘It could be arranged,’ he murmured, his eyes dragging slowly over her as if he was trying to peel away her clothes.
‘In your dreams,’ she muttered, and took out two bowls. ‘Here—dish up. I’ll get us a drink. Do you want some of that wine?’
‘I wouldn’t mind the white. The red could be a bit heavy.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said wickedly. ‘It might balance the garlic.’
Foolish girl. He threw the spoon back into the pan and stalked off into the hall, disappearing out of the front door and slamming it behind him, shrugging on his jacket as he went.
Oops. That had been mean of her to tease him. She knew he couldn’t cook, and he’d done his best. And, apart from the garlic and the fact that it was a bit over-cooked, it looked fine.
His car—the sports car, the silly, fast, dangerous one—shot off the drive in a spray of gravel, and she sighed and covered the pan, pulled it to the side and sat down to wait. Either he’d come back, she thought, in which case she’d apologise, or he wouldn’t, in which case—
What? She’d lost the girls their father, and herself the only man she’d ever loved, just for the sake of keeping her sassy mouth shut?
Oh, damn. And she couldn’t even phone him to apologise.
HE HIT the M25 before he saw sense, and he came